


Bad Habit

by MotelsandDiners



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Car rides, Cocky Dean, Cunnilingus, Dean Really Appreciates All Your Habits, F/M, Flirting, Friends to Lovers, Jealous Dean, Jealous Sam, Mild Language, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Pining, Rating will change, SassyReader, Semi-Public Sex, Sex, Sexual Frustration, TattoedReader, Teasing, Vaginal Fingering, You Have A Sweet Tooth, You Like To Speed, You own a Ford Cobra, alcohol consumption, cat and mouse game, childish Winchesters, reader smokes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-30
Updated: 2017-04-21
Packaged: 2018-09-20 23:38:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 18,453
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9521111
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MotelsandDiners/pseuds/MotelsandDiners
Summary: He has a lot of bad habits, and you're one he can't wait to start. You might be his last because he's sure nothing could be as devastating as you. Hell, playing with live C4 sounded safer than breaking the glass between the two of you, but self-preservation never was one of his strong suits.You have bad habits too, but all of them serve to work in your favor where Dean Winchester is involved.





	1. Lost in Ink

He vaguely remembers meeting you for the first time, like looking through foggy glass. Your outline is blurry, your form different in a detached sort of way because his mind doesn’t filter the past quite right while you’re in the room.

You’re wearing a night shirt, two-sizes too big, and that’s basically it. You’re barefoot, and bare-legged, nothing covering you except for Dean’s AC/DC t-shirt, worn soft through many washes and years of use.

In his mind’s eye, he doesn’t see them clearly, they’re distorted, twisted shapes of stark black and mismatched bright spots on your skin.

You’ve got your hair piled up in a messy bun, strands escaping in the back to tickle your neck and around your ears in a pleasant display of unruliness.

He knows that the longer you’re exposed to something, you eventually build a resistance to it. Or if you see something often enough, it kind of just disappears, like his freckles. He doesn’t see those anymore when he looks in the mirror. He honestly forgets he has them. But that’s not the case with you.

You hum a little under your breath, lick across your morning-dry lips and almost blink when your tongue rolls over metal near the corner of your lower lip. The things you forget you have when you just wake up…you breathe in the bitter aroma of coffee and curl your hands tighter around the mug, missing the drop of Dean’s eyelids when you do.

But with you, he sees everything, and it drives him goddamn nuts. Those little studs in your ears, round silver, and jet black on your lobes, both pairs catching the overhead light in a way that seems to say ‘look at me!’.

You had a bit of a late start this morning, and would’ve already been dressed, but you refused to drop your ritual of coffee and bagels, and sacrificed modesty to do it. Typically, you wouldn’t leave your room less than ¾ dressed, but you weren’t no quitter. You were going to have coffee and bagels, even if you had to deal with Dean staring at you in your peripherals.

As if that wasn’t enough, the cord of a necklace around your throat demanded his gaze, and he followed it to your collar-bone. The collar of the shirt you stole from him dipped a little lower, and he could sweep his eyes along the entire length of your collar-bone, mouth drying when he peeked a few letters clinging to a space he just couldn’t focus on with purpose.

You hadn’t spoken since you mumbled a good morning at him, and neither he to you, which was uncommon. You and Dean could talk easier than old ladies given the topics of coupons and knitting, so the silence that followed made you curious, but not enough to break it.

He wasn’t even sure why, maybe it was because it was _you._ He’d seen them before on other women, and he had shrugged them off, not finding them sexy or repulsive. He was just unaffected by them, no affinity or disposition to them. So, he was driven half up a wall by how hooked he was because of the ones on you.

You tap your fingers on the rim of your mug, rings clinking quietly; thin, simple bands of silver and gold shining on your middle and ring fingers. They weren’t expensive, or overly fancy, or clunky, and that was exactly what you wanted from them. You like jewelry, but not anything that went higher than 8 dollars.

And they were everywhere on you. Garnering his attention like a moth to flame. On the back of one of your hands is a dark purple tiger lily, edges of a couple of petals sliding between your knuckles to taper off into the webbing of your fingers. Smaller, flowers pop up around the web near your thumb, and then twist down to trickle under your wrist. He isn’t a botanist, but he thinks the black flowers are hibiscus. On your other hand…

The coffee’s too hot, and you hiss in irritation. You place the mug next to you on the counter, and tap your fingers on the metal, silently begging your bagels to hurry up.

Is a bright, gold-orange bohemian style sun, thin chains, and beaded strings wrapping around rays and draping over the main body of the tattoo. The color of the beads varies in color, but stay true to the primaries. On the underside of that wrist you have the compass, primary intercardinal directions pointed out by two small knives. They aren’t big, but the blades were big enough that the tattoo artist could detail in enochian symbols.

It’s like he’s staring through you he’s looking at you so hard, and you force your muscles lax against the spiral of worry working its way up your spine like a creeping snake. You wonder if you had done something to irritate him as you peer at your grey painted nails in fake interest.

He can’t remember the last time he saw your hair up…maybe it was when you first met. He didn’t notice it then, perhaps because he wasn’t obsessed with finding them like he was now. On the back of your neck you’ve got the Greek symbol for Mother-Maiden-Crone, just below your hairline, the bold black ink standing out against the tone of your skin. Eye candy, that’s what your tattoos are to him and he’s half-starved. He resists the urge to tug at the collar of his grey t-shirt, and continues his visual conquest…

 _Had_ you done something that put him on edge? Maybe you’d over-stepped a line last week when you borrowed one of his shirts without asking. Coincidentally, it happened to be the one you were wearing, and you shift a little in discomfort.

There’s one on your right thigh, and he can’t see all of it because his shirt falls right on the middle, but he can see enough to know what it is. A couple of dice, red, in mid-roll and behind them are thin lines of the beginning of letters or perhaps numbers, he doesn’t know. They disappear under the hem of your shirt (he’s just decided you can keep his shirt, because it looks better on you than it ever has on him.) like a subtle tease, and this time he scratches at his collar bone.

The coffee has cooled down enough for you to take little sips and you do, anything to take off your peripheral awareness of Dean. He hasn’t stopped staring at you, it’s like you can feel his eyes as they roam over you, imprint and press sharply like the needle of a tattoo gun, and you _aha_ in realization.

You turn, and Dean’s gaze drops to the backs of your thighs where words are swirled in delicate scrawl. One of them says _Fate,_ the other says _Coincidence._ What he wouldn’t give to nibble on those words, suck the skin red around them…

You wonder if he’s got a thing for tattoos, he didn’t seem to be over-interested in them. You can’t remember him ever asking about yours since you started hunting with him and Sam. Then again, your wardrobe consisted of jeans and leather jackets, and you hardly ever wore your hair down, so maybe he’d always been curious but hadn’t been given enough to become boldly inquisitive.

When you first walked in ten minutes ago, he had caught a glimpse of words on the inside of your thighs, but it was so fleeting, he couldn’t read them. He only caught the direction in which they ran. Up. He coughed a little with the knowledge, it broke the silence with abruptness, put his tactless desire on display. 

“You alright?” you ask, peeking over your shoulder at him, and he manages a tight smile in your direction, intent on keeping his eyes above your collar-bone. Any lower and he’d be leaving stiff-paced and pissed.

He had to make conversation, change the atmosphere because it seemed too humid and electric for a quiet morning sit-down. “So, you enjoy your coma, Sleeping Beauty?”

You hum in mild amusement but nod all the same. “You should try taking one some time. Maybe you wouldn’t space out so much,” you suggest limply, no intention or direction behind your words, but he tilts, face a hard mask for a comment so dismissive…

“I don’t space out.” He protests, too quick, too sharp, and you swivel to lean back against the counter so you can stare at him.

“Then you were staring at me if you weren’t spacing out,” you challenge, eyebrow arched in silent question. Seconds tick by as he looks at you and you look back, nothing in the air except for things he won’t admit, things you don’t need to hear to understand. His hesitation is enough, and you smile, cheeks pinched high with something tight, and you think it’s victory.

His gaze shifts, toward the coffee maker as he ponders, weighs options and consequences while you grin from across the room, tattoos winking and laughing at him. His peripherals tell him you don’t hold all the cards however, and he relaxes with the knowledge.

“I was,” he says, with a shrug, and meets your eyes again. Your grin has slipped to a lesser degree though your eyes still sparkle at him, boastfulness deepening the color of your irises. But your expression jumps when he stands, and he stands slow, which makes your lapse in smugness all the sweeter for him.

“What?” you ask, genuinely curious, not surprised, because he half-answered. “Staring or spacing out?” you clarify, while simultaneously forcing him to claim responsibility, step into the line of fire. Your simple lining of words an attempt to gain an upper-hand again, because you somehow feel like your grip is slipping.

He pads across the room, worn soles of his work boots thumping lowly, and your stomach muscles tighten with each step. He’s almost chest to chest with you, and you crane your neck to look at him, finding those pretty greens steady and sure on you.

“I was staring.” He says and it doesn’t sound like admittance, it sounds like a declaration, like a claim, and your bravado stutters under the strength of his sudden swagger, because you know that look. You’d seen it a million times at bars when he would charm women into his bed for the night. He was hitting on you.

And it makes your bones vibrate to realize that he isn’t feeding you some lines. He’s being honest, not for the effect of getting you flustered, but just because he wants you to know. And that has you flustered, the irony not lost on you.

“And you know something?” he asks, but his tone suggests he doesn’t need an answer, because he knows you don’t know this something. Your eyes scream a question at him, a question he can _feel_ because of your proximity, and he’s the smug one now because he realizes the attraction is mutual. And not just that, but curiosity as well, it’s heavy and loud in your dilated pupils. You want to know about him, even though he doesn’t have tattoos to peak your interest, you still want to _know_.

Instead of talking, telling you what you don’t know, he shows you. He leans forward, a large wiry arm reaching past your slender form. The sound you hear behind you dislodges the axis your cockiness spun on.

Springs grind and squeak, and catch, and a click tells you all you need to know. There’s a buzz as wires heat up, and he grins at you, emerald eyes glinting.

And then he turns on his heel and marches out like a proud lion, leaving you gaping and embarrassed, and confused. How he managed to turn the tables with a kitchen appliance is beyond you.

But you’re determined to win this game, after all, you have things he likes to stare at. And he hasn’t seen them all yet. You pick up your coffee, stare at the doors he left through and think about the rest of your day.

Your bagels pop behind you, but you don’t hear them.

You’re not hungry anymore.

They sit in the toaster for the rest of the day, forgotten, until a puppy-eyed moose decides he’s in the mood for peanut butter toast, and has to throw them away with a disapproving frown.


	2. Smoke and Mirrors

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You're an anomaly to him. Something he can't figure out, and the longer he tries, the more confused he gets. He's hooked on more than just your tattoos. It's all your bad habits, only to him they aren't bad habits. They're just pieces of what make you irresistible, addictive.   
> And he hasn't even gotten to taste them yet.

The rest of his morning went pleasantly enough, though he did occasionally have to stop a certain train of thought in its tracks before it got out of hand. While he was left pleased and content knowing that attraction was flowing both ways between the two of you, he had to wonder when yours started.

For him, it had been day freakin 2.

The first day you were all together, you were getting acquainted, sharing names, a bit of backstory, and a reluctant agreement to work on a case all three of you had stumbled upon. Tossing a coin for it seemed too juvenile, and when they figured out that you were all alone any ideas of leaving the case to you were shot in the ass. They could also tell that you weren’t just going to hand the case over to them willy-nilly. So, you worked it together.

That day you pinned down what you were hunting, and spent most of the night figuring out where it was holed up, all three of you sneaking cursory glances at one another. After all, a name and a backstory isn’t much to go on in terms of creating trust.

Sam at least, tried to make it seem like he wasn’t expecting you to rob them blind. He lounged back in a chair, body open and vulnerable and facing you. Dean on the other hand, sat at the table in the far corner of the room and spent his time glaring at you. All while his gun laid on the scratched surface of the wooden, circular table, fully loaded and ready to be emptied if you gave him a reason.

You wisely didn’t.

Morning came quietly, strands of gold light peeked through the small crack in the curtains and creeped across the floor. Faint stains disappeared under the sharp spear of light, and almost made the state of the carpet bearable, if only the sunlight could drive out the stale scent of old coffee spills and beer.

Dean had glared at you, slumped and out cold in a rickety, stiff-backed chair, your head leaning against the wall, and debated packing everything up, and going on this hunt without you. It must have been on his face clear as day, because Sam shook his head and before Dean could stop him, his moose of a brother patted you awake on the shoulder.

No words were spoken between the three of you as you geared up, little needed to be discussed. The car ride was tense, mostly because Dean wouldn’t stop scowling at you in the rear-view, and because you pointedly ignored him like he was a nuisance.

Sam was more cordial, less prickly around the edges. He shot you small, apologetic smiles in the side-mirror, and you smiled back, tight-lipped.

You wanted this hunt done fast, and they apparently did too, because a silent, unanimous decision was made before you all left that breakfast was to be skipped. That was the main reason everyone was so quiet and moody.

You were no exception, but you weren’t far-sighted and had snagged something from the motel’s vending machine on your way to the car. A pack of peanut-butter crackers, that sounded like heaven at the moment.

The second the package was pulled from the pocket of your hoodie, Dean’s eyes were on you, suspicion and something akin to dislike in his features. And then you heard his stomach growl, and his glare was directed out the windshield with a measure of embarrassment.

With a sigh, you opened the pack and stretched your arm between them, offering. Sam brightened immediately and smiled a ‘thank you’ at you. Dean hesitated, eyes flicking between the crackers, you, and the road.

When you waggled them at him, he gave in and took a couple. He nodded once, a small, curt thank you that honestly paled in comparison to Sam’s but he stopped glaring at you afterwards at least.

One thing you hadn’t noticed that he was glad about was that he hadn’t been looking at the package of cracker’s but rather, your hand. He barely noticed the tattoo on your hand when you first met, he hadn’t cared to notice. He was too worried about what you might have been hiding in your jacket, or your boots to really care about tattoos.

He hadn’t met too many hunters with them anyway, aside from the anti-possession tattoo, there wasn’t any need for them. But, in the early morning light, and at such a close proximity it was next to impossible not to notice the dark-hued flowers on the back of your hand.

And they were well done too, shades and shadows on the petals, slight rises and falls, dips in areas brought the flower to life on your skin. And the ones that twisted down around your wrist bent and curved with the direction of your hand.

That was when it started. A little spark that flickered in the dark backdrop of his current disposition towards you.

It was further roused when you tucked some hair behind an ear while waiting for them to get the weapons they needed out of the trunk of the impala. Your ears were pierced twice, small, round studs that winked at him with glares of light.

He begrudgingly admitted to himself that he did find you attractive, in an irritating, grating sort of way. Maybe because you were so unlike the other women he found himself entertaining. You were dangerous, edgy, sharp, maybe even a little venomous.

And Sam, well, Sam was so damn well-mannered that nothing poked through the mask of professionalism that he wore. So Dean couldn’t tell if it was just him that found you attractive, or if there were some common grounds…

You all decided to split up, each one to a floor. That took some convincing, because neither Sam or Dean thought it wise for you to go alone.

So, you went alone, taking the first floor, Dean the second and Sam the third.

The building groaned and moaned, floorboards creaked and dust wafted through the air. Bugs scurried along cracked wood, spiders hung still in webs on thresholds and corners, and sunlight barely penetrated the thick film of grime and dust clinging to windows, turning the light grey and splotchy wherever it landed.

It was peaceful, if slightly somber and creepy. Dean’s ears were straining with the effort of hearing anything alive taking up residence in this shoddy, abandoned house out in the middle of the woods. Couches and love-seats were molded and sun-bleached. Some were missing cushions, and others were torn open, scraggly, yellow stuffing bursting from the confines of the fabric like they had exploded. Tufts of it were blown about along the floor among glass shards from broken mirrors and insect carcasses.

He clung to a wall, ignoring the mold and peeling wallpaper that flaked off in his wake and edged around a crumbling doorway, gun at the ready, loaded with silver bullets. But the room was empty, nothing to note except for a large, round dining table, a chandelier barely hanging onto its fixture above. Over turned chairs, moldy paintings, and dead plants made up the décor.

He sighed, barely audible, gave the room another once over and then turned on his heel only to be stopped in the doorway. A loud crash sounded below him, the sound of splintering wood, and something that might be pottery being shattered reaches his ears and gives him pause because it’s so sudden and clamorous.

And then a deep growl along with a grunt from you had him pounding towards the stairs, yelling at Sam. “Sam! First floor!” and he skipped steps on the way down, feet barely touching the weak wood before he was moving on.

Two gunshots stopped him at the bottom, sight and sound and heartbeat stopping a second under the culmination of possible scenarios involving your well-being. The thump of a body on the floor drove his senses home like a bat and he flew around the corner, gun as high as his adrenaline.

And you…

You were leaned back against a table, hip cocked, gun low at your side, smoke still curling from the barrel. A bookshelf was broken into four pieces to the right, and dirt was splattered on a wall, as well as blood.

It was dead, on the floor at your feet, blood pooling beneath its chest. And your ankles were crossed, your expression calm and sated as you gazed listlessly at the dead body before you.

Dean knew you heard him, how could you not? He was louder than a rhino with the way he floundered down the steps. But you didn’t so much as glance in his direction, completely unaffected by his presence and stunned staring.

Then, you reached into the waistband of your jeans.

And you pulled out a cigarette, put it between your lips limply, and finally dragged your gaze over to him in the doorway.

“Got a light?”

Damn.

_God_ -damn.

Yeah, that was when his attraction went sky-high, and it hadn’t come down since. He didn’t expect it to, everything you did was a huge turn on, even something like smoking which he had never found attractive.

He rubs his eyes, the imprint of you, something he loathes and relishes, is stuck to his eyelids. He breathes deep and pulls the book on the table closer, because one foot away isn’t close enough to keep his attention and focus. If he could read with it touching his nose, he would.

“Hey, whatcha up to?”

Your voice startles him and he jumps in his seat, banging his knee on the underside of the table. He hisses and you giggle into your hand.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you.” You say, and pad further into the room.

He has a sharp comment on the tip of his tongue, something snarky and borderline petulant when he finally tears his gaze away from his throbbing knee.

His eyes land on you. And he-

Damn.

_God-_ damn.


	3. This Aint Show-and-Tell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hey, he pushed your buttons, he had to know there was going to be some sort of consequence. But, then again, are you prepared to face your own? You play to win, not to get even. That's another one. Bad habit, I mean.

You’re across the table from him, sitting straight and diligent, deep in a book. And Dean, he can’t stop looking at you.

He should’ve figured that you’d retaliate.

It’s subtle, or at least it would seem that way to blind eyes, people who don’t know about the chemistry settling between you two.

But to him, it’s a giant neon sign, a smug tip of the chin.

He knows that’s what this is because you usually wear jackets, sweatshirts, hoodies and jeans around the bunker and just about everywhere, really. But now, now you’re in just a tank-top and short shorts.

The tank-top is a thin, worn red, the color diluted from years of wear and tear and an untold number of washes, and your shorts are obsidian black. The contrasting colors of your wardrobe help to bring focus to the tattoos littering your skin.

That alone is enough. It’s when you lean back in your seat and stretch, your arms reaching skyward, back arching…it’s then that he loses his mind, quietly, mind you.

Because, you’re not wearing a bra with that thin tank, and he watches in gripped fascination and hunger as the roundness of your breasts strain against the material, your nipples pressing forwards to say ‘hello’ from across the table.

And then you resituate, pretend like you don’t know what you did.

But you both know better. He breathes slow, strained, like his ribcage has tightened on all of his organs and chews the inside of his cheek as he surveys a tattoo on your left arm, just below the beginning of your shoulder.

It’s simple, a clock, though the frame is missing. Only the hands and numbers snake along your arm. The hands are thin, and the numbers spiky on the end, though just as slim as the hands. Roman numerals as opposed to common numerical symbols.

That’s when he realizes, it’s meant to be a pocket watch, and he looks a little harder. Because if you’re that specific about what kind of clock you want, then you’d be just as picky about-

Cartier.

-the brand of pocket watch you put on your arm.

“You’re staring at me,” you say, attention locked on the book in front of you, though a portion of it is fixated to the man sitting four feet away in your peripherals. “Again.”

He doesn’t react, but maintains his stare, and you can tell it’s flat, unamused. “Is there a fine I’m not aware of?” he taps his fingers on the armrest of his chair, a short rhythm, though he punctuates it with precision and force, and you bite on a smile.

“For you?” you say, and glance over at him. If he clenches his jaw any harder, he’s going to break teeth. You crack a smile, and he twitches, just in his eyebrows. “Absolutely.”

Then an eyebrow arches at you, and you decide to take it a little further, just out of curiosity, wondering what he’ll do, if anything.

You pull your gaze away with a smirk, and prop your elbow on the table to cradle your chin into the curve of your palm. And he’s yet to look at something inanimate, unlikely to do so while you’re within the scope of his sight, so you don’t hurry your words, or jostle your expression.

“Sammy’s allowed to look for free, though,”

He pauses in his seat, wonders at your play…Surely you don’t look at him in that light, so you’re just bringing him up to try and make him jealous. Which is backwards, because you don’t like Sam. You don’t. Least, he doesn’t think you do.

But then, why? It’s pointless, unless you want Dean to think you do. And if that’s the case then he’s back at square one because you’re only doing it to make him jealous. So…

What? He’s confused. Talk about getting on a train without knowing where it’s going.

He lurches forward in his chair, legs scraping with the suddenness of it, and his mouth is a hard line, ready to deliver admonishment. But, speak of the Devil…pun friggin intended.

“I heard my name. What’s going on?” Sam’s eyebrows are high with the question as he walks in, looking between the two of you. But he…slows. Looks at you a second longer, like there’s molasses in the air dividing the space that separates the two of you and he gets caught in it, and then he snaps away.

You didn’t seem to notice, but Dean clocked in on it, like a lion who glimpses prey in his peripherals. And he starts wonder if you do in fact harbor some sort of emotion towards his brother…

“Oh, nothing. I was just saying that I think tomorrow’s choice of dessert should be up to you. We’ve had pie for a week straight…” you wave your hand dismissively, the right amount of lightness in your voice and he nods with a small shrug.

Oh, you are something else, Dean thinks. Strike one was throwing Sam into the mix, strike two was letting said moose decide tomorrow’s dessert. What the hell was wrong with having pie for a week straight? Nothing. Absolutely nothing.

He’s on the edge of his seat waiting for you to make strike three.

“Huh,” that’s Sam, at the head of the table, a thick book of his own in front of him but his attention is on you, not it. You and Dean look up at the gentle exclamation, and his features shift from their previous set, though you don’t know what nature they held.

“What?” you ask, gaze dropping to the book, thinking his outburst had to do with its contents. But when you look up, he’s still looking at you with something like surprise, and gilded interest.

“Nothing, it’s just- I didn’t realize you had so many tattoos.”He tilts his head with his statement, as if the realization has somehow shifted his perspective on life.

And Dean perks with the tone of Sam’s voice, watches a little closer from across the table and he sees it. There’s a spark, miniscule and hidden behind propriety but it’s still there in Sam’s eyes as he looks at you. Dean bristles all over with the knowledge, and contracts when you realize it as well.

You smile, almost guilty and raise your hands in placating way. “One of my many bad habits,” he chuckles, and you ease your smile wider.

Dean just about glares at you for it, and you feel it on the side of your face like hot water.

“You got any?” you ask Sam, and turn towards him, effectively shoving Dean out of your peripherals and the conversation, not that he had a part in it anyway.

“What, bad habits?” Sam grins, hazel eyes respectfully chained to yours.

You roll your eyes, flatten your smile. “No, tattoos. I know you have bad habits,” you joke, and cross your arms over the table.

He takes your jab in stride and shakes his head. “Aside from the anti-possession tattoo, no.”

You click your tongue in mock disappointment, and toss your head back. “So practical,” you breathe, and he grins lop-sidedly as you roll your head sideways to regard him. “And boring.”

“Guilty.” Though he doesn’t sound it. Doesn’t look it either. He appears as happy as a fox in a hen-house.

“You get any of these because you were drunk?” he asks, his tone implying that he suspects an affirmative answer, anticipation in his honey-flecked eyes.

“Of course, and before you ask, no, it isn’t an embarrassing one.” You tip your chin haughtily, and he nods with a dimpled cheek, like he doesn’t quite believe you’re telling the truth.

Seconds pass as you stare at each other, an air of friendliness that you’re used to sensing when it comes to Sam. But when his expression slides, an expectancy behind the pull of his lips and a question clinging to his irises, you feel something slip through a crack. An undercurrent of interest beyond the lines of cordial boundaries, and you falter in your strategy, fearing future consequences.

But Dean’s still sitting in his chair, still in this room, with his bearings and thoughts behind a vault and you’re not satisfied.

So, you quirk an eyebrow at Sam and wink. “I’m afraid we’d have to get to know each other better if you want to see that tattoo.” You insinuate as best you can, and surprise yourself with how genuine you sound.

Strike three.

Sam’s expression opens in wonder and astonishment, teeters near the border of acceptance and confusion, and then darkens minutely when you hold his gaze with inclination. He opens his mouth as he leans forward, aiming for a quiet murmur.

A murmur you never hear because chair legs scrape loudly, and boots stomp. And Dean leaves the library, shoulders tight and expression tighter.

You stare after him, feeling a drop of victory dip into your bones, and manage a ‘huh’, just to seem oblivious. Dean had luckily shattered the bubble between you and Sam, so you snap your attention back the lore book before you.

Sam, however, is still staring at the door, a frown creasing his brow. The way Dean left…

Sam recognized the strain in Dean’s stiff gait, he’d seen it a few times over the years. It usually only cropped up when the both of them were interested in the same woman.

Dean was jealous.

And Sam’s only a little smug. Only a little. Because he can see you fighting a cocky smile.


	4. May Not Have Thought This Through

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Well, things only get more heated between you and Dean, and you've brewed something between you and the younger Winchester. You're not usually concerned about consequences until they catch up to you, and they catch up fast. Faster than you thought they would, because, well, Sam didn't actually like you. Right? A bag of potato chips and his brother would disagree.

Research goes smoothly, as well as it can with two people. You search lore books while Sam has taken up responsibility combing news articles, trying to cipher anything relevant or remotely helpful from ‘eye witness’ accounts.

“Are we sure there’s even a case?” you ask, stretching your neck, pressing your fingertips into sore areas beside your spinal column.

Sam shrugs at his spot at the head of the table, focus on his laptop, diligently so. “No, but that’s the point, right?”

You chew your lip in response, watch him clack away, the noises of the keys too loud for it to be natural and work the inside of your cheek between teeth. Of course you’d started something, you’d meant to for a different purpose, and now you were wondering why Sam was _doing_ research instead of trying to continue. You’re glad he’s not, but you’re also wary.

Because he’d been interested, enough so that his own brother in the room didn’t mean a damn thing. And now his brother wasn’t in the room, and he wasn’t doing anything…maybe you should just count your blessings and not analyze possible curses.

He clears his throat, and you blink fast and sharp to find that he’s looking at you expectantly, with an edge. It occurs to you that you’ve been staring, and you waddle your gaze off towards the bookshelves with a pinched expression, like you’ve been sucking on a lemon.

His chair creaks against his stiffening spine, and you take the time to scratch at the junction of your knee and thigh until you’re sure you’ve got the texture and movement memorized and you peer at him sideways. “It’s not an embarrassing tattoo.” You reiterate from earlier, just for something to take up this silence.

He narrows his expression, from his lips to the muscles around his eyebrows and asks, “What?”

You sigh long through your nose, roll your lips into your mouth before replying. “My drunken tattoo. It’s not. Embarrassing.” You slice your sentence into words when he continues to stare at you like he’s peering through a keyhole, and you realize belatedly that he’s somewhat pissed.

“Hm.” Is his short grunt, though his eyes say a lot more to you and you bounce in your seat with regret, and anxiety, and self-admonition. Then he sighs at you, straight at you, and flicks his gaze towards things without breath or muscle. “What is it?” he asks you, tone forcing curiosity even as his eyes pointedly ignore you, and you silently thank him for this tiny peace offering.

“It’s uh- a sea turtle.” You tell him, and then his eyes do meet you and he forgets that he’s turned on because-

“A sea turtle?” he asks in disbelief, because drunk people don’t get sea turtles tattooed on themselves. They get leprechauns, or heads of dogs whose breeds they’ve never heard of, or random Celtic shit.  

“What? They’re cute.” You defend yourself, sounding indignant enough that he can find humor in it and smile a little.

“Were you lying?” he pops suddenly, and slides sideways in his chair so a good portion of him is resting on the arm and the corner of the back. You jump your eyebrows in question and it makes him pause a moment, hesitation dimming his irritability to something tolerable. “About where it is?” he clarifies, and forces himself to maintain eye contact, willing lightning to strike him dead; but when he remains and you return his shrouded gaze, he concedes that maybe this conversation will be what kills him.

You teeter-totter your head with contemplation and he gives you a stunned look in response. “Well,” you start, and drop your chin into your hand. “It certainly wouldn’t hurt if we knew each other better. But it wouldn’t be necessary.”

His features jolt and his mouth trembles with excited words that he ultimately reigns in with a cough. He snatches your gaze once, twice and then shakes his head, at himself. “That doesn’t really help.” He points out, and you chuckle.

“Well, when you get your antlers straightened out,” you stand, and he doesn’t even bother glaring at you for the moose reference. “Come talk to me.” You snap your fingers and point at him as you walk out, and you feel his astonished gaze on you until you turn the corner from the library.

You only ponder what you’ve done for two seconds, your pulse sky-rocketing before you shove it away with the admittance that you weren’t wholly against showing and telling. After all, that was your plan for the day.

Though, you hope by the end that it turns into show-and-touch, because show-and-tell was just too unsatisfying. You have half a mind to apologize to both of them, but you’re on a streak and consequences sound far away and unimportant, so you waltz on without a destination in mind. Rather, you walk with a person in mind, and it’s muscle memory because from the hallway of the library to his bedroom door you don’t remember a thing.

You’ve a vaguely concealed plan behind kind lips and soft knuckles as you knock on the door and wait. He grumbles from behind the wood, low timber and gravel vocal chords because you apparently interrupted something.

“Somebody better be dying.” He fires from behind the door and yanks it open, and this time it’s your turn to:

Damn. _God-_ damn.

He’s standing in the doorway, fresh out of the shower- fresh out of the _middle_ of a shower -and glistening from the waist up.

Muscles that you usually only see caked in blood or dirt or scrapes are out in the open, hugged with low lamplight and lazy water droplets. They cling to him in flattering rivulets, highlighting dips and drops in skin, rise of bone where skin has been pulled taut. They jump and wink at you in snatches, rays of wayward light, guiding your attention like a lighthouse in a storm.

You’re not even out of the fog yet when he speaks again. “You gonna say something or what?”

You rock back on your heels, blinking, your eyelids wind-shield wiping all this water from your fore-front, and curve your gaze up to his eyes, raking his outline with the motion. “Lunch. D’you want any?” you kick the question out, lilting the a’s because your tongue has gone a little numb.

He notices, of course he notices, and he leans, muscles and tendons and skin, and light stretching one side of him long, and you swear your heartbeat directs your blinks for a second because he seems to flicker in and out of focus. “What’s on the menu?”

_You. Me._

“Hamburgers or sandwiches.” You squint, trying to shove everything collar-bone down out of center frame.

He hums in thought, lips twitching while he watches you squirm. “Well, kind of in the mood for something else,” he throws out, eyes sparking with tease, and you tighten from toes to eyebrows, bones locking along the way. You wait with paused breath and fresh nerves, screaming for stimuli behind stilted features that you refuse to alter.

“But I can do with burgers,” he says like he’s had to choose between two off-brand cereals, and then he smiles with twenty different kinds of sugar and offers, “Give me a minute and I can help.”

Your brain goes _uh-huhhmmm_ and your mouth says, “Sure, sounds like a plan.” And he angles his eyebrows up, and that smile widens with mirth and smugness, because you’re still in his doorway with stiff eye contact and rigid bones.

You grumble in the back of your throat, nod once, blink twice and turn on your heel, surprised that joints are bending like they’re supposed to. You hear him ease out a laugh through his nose, all shaky air, and jumpy catches in his chest and you fight the cement in your knees and shoulders.

You hear the exact moment you’re successful because it goes silent behind you, and his eyes rake you from behind with so much presence that goosebumps raise. But you keep on, letting your hips drop and roll with your steps, shoulders bouncing and tilting with your gait, your subtle prance.

Then that eye contact turns, breaks and tumbles towards something that has your pulse skittering, climbing up your spine with jolts and slaps and needles, and you grin wide enough to make your cheeks ache.

He slams his door shut, a mixture of frustration and bitter failure and you can taste it all the way at the end of the hall. But victory tastes so much richer, sweeter, and you toss your head back with a small laugh.

The kitchen is quiet, and stale. The lingering scent of coffee clings to the area around the coffee pot, and you contemplate starting a new pot when you decide that you’re already awake as much as you can be. Coffee would be redundant at this point.

You’ve grabbed the hamburger from the fridge, and a bag of fries from the freezer and thrown them both on the counter when he strides his way through the double doors, his arms spread wide, stretching his t-shirt across his chest.

You quirk an eyebrow at his grand entrance, careful to keep your mind right here and not let it wander back to hallway. “You here to make hamburgers or chew bubblegum and kick ass?” you ask, frowning a smile at him because you’re sure he meant to catch you off guard.

Dean smirks, taking your cockiness and steady nerves in stride. “Depends. You got any bubblegum?”

“No, I but I do have lettuce to cut and tomatoes to slice, so I’m afraid the ass-kicking will have to be postponed.” You smile, and he shakes away his smile with his head, crossing the room to snatch up the meat and fries.

Before long you’ve got lettuce and tomatoes sliced and burger ready, and you tap your foot wondering what else is in the fridge because lettuce and tomatoes is just sad. Condiments wise, there’s ketchup and mustard, maybe some mayonnaise…

The meat is sizzling on the stove, and the grease is popping loudly. Your stomach is on the verge of growling and you hope there’s a jar of pickles in the fridge that you can munch on, you know there’s sliced cheese, but who just _eats_ sliced cheese?

You’ve made up your mind to scour the contents of the refrigerator and your muscles have barely twitched to move when you feel the heat of him at your back. He’s not touching you, he’s dancing the line of it though, you can hear his bones creak when he breathes, his shirt sigh and whisper with every pull of his lungs.

His breath is hot on the back of your neck, tickling strands of loose hair and goosebumps flash like lightning. Seconds tick by where you both wait for the other to do something, say something, and the awareness peaks to something irresistible and tangy when you both let the distance dwindle on its own.

He’s closer when you breathe, and he edges in when air puffs his chest, just as close when he exhales, and soon you feel every second between the fullness of his lungs and the emptying of them. Heat pools in the places where breath isn’t required, hips flush against hips, thighs shifting and sliding, shoulders dropping with strokes of his gaze.

And then hands hold what breath can’t deliver, feeling bones and flesh and things that have been disclosed but not affirmed. Fingertips ghost with trepidation, hesitation, and you press with consent, follow the warmth of calloused palms with your mind as they drag and smear and grip you close.

He’s got you languid and warm against him, smoothly fitted into parts of him that you only guessed at, and he sways, a long shimmy-shake that pulls you up and tall and he’s able to slot all of you into him. He rumbles in your shoulder, nose breaking breath down your collar-bone, cutting underneath your tank-top and talks into your skin.

“Tell me there isn’t a fine for touching.” He nips quick, drags his mouth back and forth over your shoulder and neck and you close your eyes to feel better.

“No. But there should be.” You swallow hard, cartilage and veins and vocal chords scraping painfully with the tilt of your head, a tilt you’re happy for it because he can reach underneath your jaw with hungry lips and curious tongue.

In the back of your mind, you register something mildly important, and fight to bring it to the surface. “Dean-“ you start and then clamp your mouth shut because he’s got an arm around you, bent where you can feel his elbow bump your hip bone, and his forearm flex on your stomach. And cradles your left breast, hold light, but fingertips sure and firm as they massage and knead. 

His fingers pinch suddenly and you jerk with a small gasp that jidders you along his frame, teases you with things you can’t appreciate through fabric. He hums, rolls your hardened peak gently and leaves kisses that sting and bite and suck and burn their way to your ear.

“Are we done with this cat-and-mouse bullshit?” he hisses into your ear, doesn’t wait for your reply before he’s got your lobe in his mouth and rolls his tongue around the studs there.

You choke, clack your teeth together, wobble your lips into vowels because you can’t quite remember how to talk. He’s sucking so hard he’s sure to take the backs of your earrings off, and you stare straight into the overhead light to try and filter out the stimuli clinging to your skin.

“Only if you admit you’re the mouse.” You say, and he chuckles, releasing you.

“Whatever you say, sweetheart.” The timer on the fries goes off immediately after and you jump in his hands which lay on your waist.

_Cock-blocking oven,_ you think with a sigh as he breaks away to fetch the fries. He’s thrown off his oven mitt and turned the timer off, leaving the tray to cool on the counter. When he turns around, he’s locked on you like you’re the only thing in the room to stare at and he takes a step forward-

“Was that lunch?” Sam asks from the doorway, throwing his gaze around the surfaces of the kitchen.

_Cock-blocking moose,_ you think with a quick glare in his direction, quick enough that he doesn’t notice. But Dean does because he hasn’t broken his stare, and he grins with tight lips.

“Yes.” You say, tone flat, look flatter when you swivel to regard him and he blinks, wondering what he did wrong.

And you finally make your way to the fridge in search of pickles and cheese, and after a thought, you grab some onion too. Might as well enjoy yourself with food, can’t enjoy yourself any other way.

By the time you take it all back to the counter, Sam and Dean have shared some meaningful looks and facial twitches, and have both hardened their stances on opposite sides of the room, you unknowingly trapped between their stand-off.

“Do we have any potato chips?” you ask while you open the jar of pickles, and Sam pipes up.

“I’ll check.” He offers, chipper and ready to lend a hand, and you blink but brush it off when he disappears into the pantry.

Then Dean’s at your side, with a plate, hamburger on bun and fries sitting beside, and you blink harder. “Uh- thhanks.” He smiles softly, skirts around you with a hand on your back and makes his own plate.

“Classic or cheddar?” Sam asks appearing around the corner of overhead cabinets with two bags of chips in hand, and you squint, not remembering having two bags of chips last time you went to the store.

You shrug. “Both?” he’s all too happy to oblige, opening them both on the spot with a cheery smile that about blinds you. You feel Dean bristle beside you, his irritation stabs into your side like needles, and you backpedal towards condiments, at the head of the island where you can see them both.

They’re stiff like statues, hung somewhere in the air over the lettuce and pickles with tension that poor vegetables didn’t ask to be involved in. And you wonder…

“Someone pass me the cheddar potato chips?”

They practically lunge for the bag, even though Sam’s closer and Dean almost lands his elbow in the tomatoes, and they glare at each other like Sam’s just spat all over the name of Led Zeppelin.

And then it breaks when Sam holds out the bag to you and attention gets pulled to an area that’s closer to you. Both the brothers feigning innocent at their strange behavior with smiles when you look at them.

_Ah,_ you think with tight eyelids. _Consequences. Damn them._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've not a clue whether to take reader/Sam seriously, or let it fizzle out. I just. Don't. Know. Tell me. Someone...


	5. Got No Time To Slow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some space is what you need, but it isn't what you get, and you're glad. Because it's easier when he's the main focus, the only center of your attention, and you're happy to take him along for a ride.

Lunch had been…interesting for lack of a better term. You were honestly surprised they hadn’t tried to mark you like territory, because they were like dogs with bones in that small space with you. All pissy and snappy with their eyes and frowning lips until you’d catch their gaze, then they’d brighten with enthusiasm and shine so hard it was like they were overexposed.

Jesus, they’d been leaking testosterone so strongly you couldn’t even taste your damn cheeseburger and fries. It had stressed you out a little, because while it wasn’t outright said you could hear it in narrowed blinks and large swallows of food.

_Back off, she’s mine._

And you were too busy trying to figure if your burger like tasted fries or if your fries tasted like burger to do anything, claim an affinity to one of them to kill this pissing contest that it had remained even after you left the kitchen.

The tension had you hop-skipping away down the hall, jitters and pin-pricks at your back because their presence was so damn strong in the kitchen you could feel it clinging to your skin.

You needed a smoke, and some air, and some booze, and space that didn’t have two Winchesters vying for your attention. You opted out of more research, figuring one or both of them would be trying to track down a case, and you didn’t want to be in the middle of it.

So you had hurried to your room, slipped on a jacket longer than your shorts and shoved your feet into boots that went mid-calf, not bothering to tie the laces.

You strain your ears in the silence, listening for voices or footsteps or…something. But it’s quiet and you take your small window, snatching the keys to your Ford Cobra off the dresser. You poke your head out into the hallway, look left and right for a glimpse of bow legs or long sideburns and shoot off when you see neither.

You feel like you’re making a prison break, or sneaking out to see a boyfriend your parents didn’t approve of. You snicker, thinking the brothers would make that case for the other, denying you opportunity to see their sibling.

You clamp your hand around your keys, lest they jingle and let the Winchesters know where you are, and measure your steps with determined silence. Silence that doesn’t do you any damn good because when you turn the corner to the garage, Dean’s there, leaning against the door with his arms crossed over his chest.

He’s been waiting because his head is already turned in your direction, amusement brightening his eyes. “Which one of us were you sneaking away from?” he asks, an eyebrow cocked in haughty contentment.

You glance behind you down the hallway, now overly suspicious, and clear your throat. “Both?” you answer with hesitation, wondering if truth is helpful or not.

He nods with a quick pout and tilts his shoulders as he rolls his way off the door like he’s in a damn Backstreet Boys dance video. “There any way I can convince you not to run away from me?” he asks you, a smirk slowly pulling his lips and you pause in your discretion, toss your judgement back and forth, and finally decide.

“Sure is,” you smile, and his eyebrows rise slow in expectation and suggestion. You find your center, your boastfulness, the truth of the tattoo you have on your waist running up your side, and stretch your walk to him, legs reaching. “You can indulge my bad habits,” you tell him, patting his chest with fluttering lashes and pouting lips. “All of them.”

And slip past him into the garage, missing the hooded look he throws after you along with the clench of his jaw. But you hear him behind you, fast taps and shuffles so he can stay right on your heels and breath down your neck with promise.

He gets fingers into belt loops and stops you cold with a solid pull, all of him pressed up against you, insistent and burning, and you tilt back, arching for him. “How many more you got?” he rumbles, and you feel it more than hear it, it trembles up your spine and shakes your ribcage with quiet thunder. 

“What, you want to know?” you snicker sarcastically and he _tsks_ behind you, and slips his hands up then _down_ , fingers gliding under the waistband of your shorts to trickle over your hip bones.

“How else am I going to ‘indulge’ you?” he quips, low and smooth, and you have a snip on the tip of your tongue, one that he crushes with mean hands and hard hips as he grinds against you. He’s already half hard and straining against denim, along with willpower. He’s more than half a mind to fuck you against your car, not caring about noise or the door he forgot to close.

“You can learn from experience,” you offer breathily, shift a little against him just to feel fabric catch and softness run over hard parts. “You seem like that kind of guy,” you hear him click his tongue in thought, weighing your assumption with caressing fingertips, swaying hips that you lazily follow.

His decision gets made for him a moment later when you hear a crash further in the bunker, dull thuds and whipping paper as Sam drops a stack of books and growls out an overly frustrated, “Fuck!”

He sniffs, goes ‘hm’, and then removes his fingers from your waist. “Experience, you said?” You stutter a laugh through your nose, hum and _mm-hm_ and he taps a foot behind you like he’s actually still thinking.

“Let’s get going then.” He resigns with more than a little pep, and you let your grip on your keys go limp, now deciding that you’re out of the danger-zone. He skirts around the hood of your Ford, trailing fingertips.

“Could use a good polish,” he remarks as you both duck into the cab.

“Yeah?” you ask, snagging your sunglasses from the visor. “We all usually just pile in the Impala, don’t really see the point.”

He chews his lips, flicks his gaze towards Baby, just parked a little ways down from your Cobra, and bobs his head sideways, _yeah, guess you’re right._ But the minute you turn the engine over his eyes pierce the hood, and his lips part slightly, appreciating the rumble and vibration rolling around the interior.

You peer in your peripherals, and lick a smile off your lips as Dean settles in his seat with awe and comfort, and you guess, “Might have to make a point, huh?”

He nods once, shifts his shoulders and agrees. “Yeah,” He watches you slide your seat-belt on, glances at his own and ignores it. “Every now and again.” He tip-toes, trying to hide his appreciation and you roll your eyes as you begin to back out of the garage

He smiles freely, tries to feel the leather with his eyes, the smoothness of the wood paneling you put into the doors and around the radio. You’ve got a couple necklaces and keychains dangling from the rear-view and he finds it charming, the way you’ve added touches to your car. It’s a little different from the Legos that bounce around in the vents of the impala when the heat is on, or the green toy soldier that’s been shoved into the ashtray, but it’s evidence all the same that your car is loved.

Idly, he wonders what your other bad habits are, and gets an inkling, a small pin-prick of suggestion when you finally roll out and straighten your car towards the road. You smirk a little, lengthen in your seat and he’s got half a second to wonder what you’re so excited about before you shift gears fluidly, sexier than perhaps it should be, and punch the gas like it’s somehow offended you.

He’s thrown back into his seat with the lurch and held there under climbing horsepower, and surprise. He flicks his gaze over to you, sees you grinning, that piercing in your lip going a little sideways with how wide you’re beaming, and puts a tally on the wall.

‘Found one,’ he thinks, seeing your teeth appear on your lip, toying with the metal there. ‘Speeding, she likes to speed.’

The needle on the speedometer inches higher, and he reeeaaches for his seat-belt with stiff worry, trying not to stare at you having the time of your life.

‘Learning about her bad habits might kill me,’ Dean muses, feeling only slightly better when his seatbelt clicks. ‘Ah, well. If her habits don’t, something else will.’

So he reclines, relaxes his legs straight and drops his shoulders and lets your energy warm him, inching a smile as the engine roars. Then you laugh, small and quick and his smile broadens, watching scenery fly by faster.

Back in the bunker, Sam picks up his books with a grouchy sigh and listens to the sound of your car inch out of the garage. Listens to how quiet it after you’re gone, and knows. He’s not surprised, but he is miffed. He hopes he can find a case to take his mind off it, because right now all he’s doing is thinking about the places that sea turtle could be on you.

He hefts the books in his arms closer and releases a quieter, “Fuck.”

 


	6. She Always Takes A Candy Stick To Bed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hey, he found some habits you too share. Great, you can bond...Like you aren't already. He loves discovering things about you, almost as much as finding out you have things in common.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Basically a filler chapter....So, I won't be too much longer on this story. I'm thinking about 2 or three more chapters and then it will be done. I've got other stories I really need to work on, and I'm just getting ideas for them left and right...In any case, enjoy, my lovelies.

You all but skid into the parking lot, tires squealing, burning rubber and slide into a parking space, grinning widely. You whoosh out a breath, and cut the engine, the keychains attached jingling cutely.

You turn to say something along the lines of ‘let’s go’ or ‘you ready’, but he’s just goddamn there, with hands on the side of your face and his mouth on yours. You gasp quietly, and he doesn’t even pause, just presses closer, slips his hands back into your hair and moves, coaxing response from you.

He’s warm and firm, and you slant against him feeling his full lips mold and melt with desire that tingles your nerves with quick little hellos that you want to respond to. He sacrifices the hold he has in your hair and snaps his hand down to your warm thigh, sliding and smoothing over soft skin with gentleness that has you wondering about his true intentions.

But it changes when you slip a hand along his jaw, feeling stubble graze and prickle your palm, and grip him, fingers curling around the back of his neck tightly. He grunts, some kind of thank you, you think, because all of a sudden he moves into you, teeth nipping, breath breaking, and he squeezes your thigh hard enough to bruise, drags his hand down into the bend of your knee just to nestle in and feel the heat that’s gathered there.

You tilt for him, turn your body so he can get a good hold, a stronger angle to steal your breathe from and he sighs into your mouth, halting to run his tongue over your bottom lip.

“Uuh…what are we here for, exactly?” you feel him ask, soft syllables, and confused consonants. You smile, press your lips, quick and sweet and pull away.

“My other bad habits.” You tell him, swiping your thumb down his rough jaw. He hums, blinks his gaze between your lips and the gas station to his side and swallows.

“God knows I wouldn’t want to miss those.” He lets you pull away and it’s the meanest thing he’s ever done to himself. He drags his fingers down the sides of his nose, pulling the corners of his eyes as he watches you climb out of your car, thighs flexing, skin rolling over bone, teasing firmness and hand holds.

He groans, breathes quick a couple times and opens his door. You’re combing a hand through your hair, tussling locks with careless fashion, and he watches your hips dip and drop as you walk. He’s quick to stride over, fast and insistent when he gets you.

You barely have a second to process he’s near before he’s got a hand in your back pocket and pulling you into his side, so you have to swing an arm around his waist if you want to keep walking.

You smile up at him, one corner of your mouth pulled with an amused question, and he just shrugs at you not offering an answer.

You don’t realize how hot it is outside until you step into the air-conditioned gas station and breathe greedily, feeling cool air lick your skin, cold in some areas because you’re sweating. The gas station attendant hardly looks at you, but it might be consequence of Dean glaring at him.

“Ah,” you say, “marking your territory.” aiming for a teasing jab, but the way he warms and edges closer to you tells you that he took something different from it.

He leans down, speaking into your ear, subtlety aware of shelves and moving people among the aisles. “Damn right.” He affirms with a nip to your lobe, and you cut off a noise in the back of your throat. You feel him smile, press a kiss to your ear with warm lips, and you feel the imprint even after he pulls away.

“Your habits.” He reminds you with a squeeze of his hand, fingers pressing in the softness of one cheek, hot contact and tasting curls of his digits, and you blink dumbly, colorful shelves and crackling music from speakers mutes and falls away for a second.

But your mouth still miraculously knows how to work, and you hear yourself say. “Get a basket, hm?” he smiles wide and broad with twinkling eyes, all manner of smug and hungry, but he listens. Your back pocket feels so empty when he goes, so lonely. You never knew a pocketful of someone’s hand could be something that you’d miss.

You shake your head, slip your jacket off and tie it around your waist. What he does is damn distracting, and you’d like to get out of this store relatively dry. You head toward the candy section, in the mood for something sweet and easy, your boots clomping and thumping loudly. There’s hardly anyone here, but there is occasional traffic, people paying for gas, or someone popping in for a coffee and you instinctively look them over.

You’re standing with your arms crossed and your hip cocked when Dean finds you contemplating your candy choices.

“Hey,” he says lightly, eyes up-downing you, quirking a smirk at the jacket around your waist making it impossible for him to slip his hand into your back pocket.

You grunt, teeth toying with your lip ring and he looks between you and the shelves, the pretty packages, the bright candy and he _aha_ ’s, with realization. He frowns at how hard you’re thinking, and reaches forward for a pack snack-size snickers, hoping it’ll get you out of the gate.

He tosses them into the basket hanging limply from his fingers and the sound jolts you into action. You grab gummy bears, sour patch kids, a box of Mike and Ike’s, some York patties, and a box of skittles. He’s looking at you, stinted surprise in his lax mouth, but his eyes say he’s proud in a childish way.

You flash a smile and waltz on, snatching a bag of chips and some beef jerky at the end of the aisle to drop behind you into the basket. He’s trailing that close, the basket sometimes swings into the backs of your legs with how close he is, and he apologizes, but he doesn’t back off.

“What else?” he asks, and it sounds off-hand, like he’s not expecting an answer. You realize he’s just thinking out loud, and the fact that he’s trying to guess your other habits, that he’s putting effort into figuring you out makes your cheeks ache with a grin.

“Booze, my good sir. Booze.” You say, twirling to beam at him briefly, all teeth and impish features and he smirks.

“Woman after my heart.” He chuckles, and you walk backwards because you just want to see his face while you talk.

“Well, I’ll be honest, my aim is initially lower than that. But I do intend to work my way up.” You wink at him, watch him drag his tongue over his teeth with a smile that’s all sunshine and laughter.

“I think I’ll be okay if you never do,” he says, teasing, not missing a beat in this dance of witty flirtation.

“I bet.” And you turn, bee-lining for the alcohol with hellfire at your heels, flames that burn green and lick at your skin, anything they can reach. You’d really like for it to burn you up, because you’re feeling just a little cold, a little too dry, like kindling and you’re waiting…


	7. Cruise Control

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chocolate and Whiskey and impatience are what drives the situation to what it is: a new bad habit. One that makes your others look like one-time mishaps.

You grin behind the steering wheel, not bothering to hide your mirth. Dean’s pouting beside you, and not the wounded kind of pout, more like, frustrated.

You pop another York mint into your mouth because you’re sure that all your smiling is irritating him. You think back to the cash register, the fact that you racked up over $50 in candy, snacks and booze, and then made him pay. Hey, wasn’t your fault you forgot your wallet. Really, it was theirs.

He huffs, chews a snickers angrily, too much power in the jaw because you can hear his teeth clack, and you break.

You snort a laugh at him, and then go belly-deep when he scowls at you like a slighted child. “Hey,” you put a hand up in a placating manner. “I did say you were going to indulge my habits.”

He frowns. “Yeah, well, you didn’t tell my wallet.” He complains, tearing open another wrapper.

“I’ll be sure to apologize,” you roll your eyes and glance over. “It’s not like it’s your own money anyway- hey, get out of my candy!” you snap when you see him toss a couple mint patties into his mouth.

“I bought ‘em. My candy.” He says around a mouthful of chocolate and mint.

“You’re a child.” You sigh, and to further prove your point, his sticks tongue out at you, heaping pile of candy balanced on it. “Gross.”

It’s not that long of a drive back to bunker, but you can practically taste the alcohol, and you want a cigarette now. Patience isn’t a strong characteristic of yours.

When Dean reaches for the whiskey, you snap your fingers at him like a scolding mother.

He blinks incredulously, glances between the bottle, himself and you, and then scrunches his face like, _Reeally? No. No, I’m doing it._

“Dean, come on.” You say and watch him unscrew the lid with narrowed eyes. You about call him some scathing cuss-word that would make your Baptist grandmother faint when he interrupts you.

“Pull over.”

You glance along the road, more specifically, you look at how there aren’t any places to park.

“Dean,” you start, staring emphatically, “I can’t-“

“Just pull in behind this music store.” He points, nodding like he’s given facts and reasons and you shouldn’t be arguing.

“What the Hell for?” you ask, even as you turn into the parking lot. He smiles, shrugs, and winks as he takes a swig.

There aren’t cars in the back, or windows, or even video cameras. “They’re just asking for someone to get mugged back here.” Deans hums, uninterested, and offers the bottle to you. “God, yes.” You say and snatch it. His eyes widen when you drink, only it’s more like you _drank_ instead of drink. It’s a gulp, not a sip, or even a drink, it’s a fucking gulp of whiskey. Whiskey which gives him caution, and you throw it back like it’s water.

You sigh in relief, and he goes a little slack-jawed. “Oh, man. That is good whiskey.” You praise with a lop-sided grin. You look over, and find Dean furiously tapping at his phone, sending a text, and your first thought is _don’t tell me he saw some crazy shit while I was throwing whiskey back. No freaks of nature today please._

Just as you open your mouth to ask what’s up, he’s tossing his phone to the floor and yanking the keys out of the ignition, killing the engine.

“What-? Hey,” you get a portion of a question off your tongue, and even less of a protest because he takes the bottle from your hand, and you only get a second to mourn the loss before he’s got you again.

You ‘mmph!’ against his lips, and he smiles briefly. The grief of losing the whiskey is short lived when his lips are warm and slack on your own, moving like he’s got all day, and you suppose he does. You don’t know what he’s done with the whiskey, but he’s done something with it because he winds his left arm around your waist and cups your cheek with his other.

The kiss is easy in its want, sweet with lingering sugar but tinged with spark from whiskey and your lips tingle with hot breath and the realization that there’s no one to see you two. He slants your head, nips and licks the kiss into something stronger that seizes your attention with wet contact and shared pants that play on a quick loop.

In the back of your mind, you notice that you no longer want that cigarette, and you figure it has something to with the man currently kissing you senseless. He’s apparently stronger than a habit you’ve had for years, and you wonder what that says about the man.

He breaks away with an impish peck, and trails lazy kisses along your jaw while you stare at the roof of your car, mind spinning. And you know it isn’t because of that one shot of whiskey. You know. Absently, you notice- how the heck can you be remotely absent while in the front seat of a car with Dean? Get your head in the game, Y/N -that his hands are at the material of your waist.

He's untying the knot you twisted your jacket into, and you blink, quick and light against the disbelief, the relief, the excitement all curling into chemicals that drown your brain with the source of physical stimuli liberating you.

Speaking of being liberated, he’s unbuttoned your shorts and has his hand under the waistband just trailing along your stomach and over to your hip to squeeze. And goddamn you and your never-ending supply of sass and wit, you quip at him,

“That’s not my back pocket, just so you know.”

He chuckles, snorts into your shoulder. “You don’t say.” He dips lower, denim and the fabric of your underwear straining with the width of his hand. He doesn’t have much reach, but the heat alone has you shifting, and he smiles.

His other hand, once stalled at your opposite hip skitters up your tank-top, leaving sparks and ticklish pulsing along your skin. You’ve never been so proud of yourself for your attire, because these shorts are so short that zipper reaches low enough he has no trouble finding you, and let’s not forget your decision to forego wearing a bra. You’d high-five yourself if you weren’t preoccupied with what Dean’s hands are doing.

He’s got the heft of your right breast in his hand, feeling weight and softness mold to his palm, warm and reciprocate heat he provides. You arch lightly, silently asking, and he acquiesces. Sparks burst when he rolls a hardened peak between his fingers, and you toss your head back to gasp, only for the air to get trapped in the length of your throat when his other hand finds your clit, direct and calculated with calloused fingertips that catch and roll with delicious friction.

You buck your hips chasing the contact, and those fingers on your breast pinch hard enough to capture your breath and hold it captive in the hollow of your throat. It breaks the second he mimics the same action on your clit, bursting out from your lips in a shaky rasp high on heat and surprise.

You hardly know where the rest of Dean is, you’ve convinced yourself he’s just hands at this point because they’re making you feel so much. His fingers sink, dip into your warmth below, just feeling, teasing at the wetness gathering there and you wonder what the Hell you’ve been doing this whole time.

Dealing. You’ve been dealing. You swallow hard, muscles grating on chords that want to vibrate in tune with the tremors he’s waking in your core and thighs, and you- “Ughshit,” against your teeth.

He chuckles, quick and knowing and all manner of smug under your chin, those plump lips lazily trailing. “This what you meant when you said ‘indulge’?” he purrs into your neck and the vibrations sway your sight, drown your hearing because his voice is honey peppered with stinging cinnamon.

“I don’t even know anymore,” you manage, blinking sense and space back into your brain and you twitch your fingers, not sure where they are. _Shoulder and forearm,_ you squeeze, feeling strong muscle hold tight under clammy hands.

“Fair enough.” He glides that inch back up with slick fingers and back and forths a slide on your clit that has your vision flicking like an on and off switch, and you don’t even try to hold back the moan that ripples its way from your stomach to your tongue.

You kick your head back, feeling the coolness of the window seep through your hair to your skull, and you can’t remember how you got turned in the seat, or when he had time to bunch your shirt in hand and haul the fabric up near your shoulder but he did.

And you wait for something to happen, something more to add to the sparks he’s striking with quick figure 8s, but he’s momentarily still, and you creak your eyes open to look at him. Funny, you don’t remember closing your eyes either.

You’d figure he’d be staring at your chest in hunger, predatory zeal, but no. He’s zipping and zapping his gaze every which way, unable to stay his eyes, and you realize a little belatedly, _Oh, yeah. I have tattoos._

“Find that tattoo yet?” you ask, just to give him something to focus on, and his eyes jump up, cool in the way they drag but heated in the way the pupils expand and darken the thin ring of his irises. 

He smiles slow. “Don’t know. How well do I have to get to know you?” You open your mouth to quip, to tease, and you don’t realize you don’t have the grounds or the position to play with him. His fingers halt abruptly, then roll until your swollen bud peeks between them and drags his hold up, clit and folds stretching and buzzing and you squeak a gasp.

His smile widens, and his eyes crinkle at the way he’s got you caged and flush, long but small, and then he winks at you, the way you blink tight at him like you’re pissed. “This well?” he asks, and lowers his head take a nipple into his mouth. You jolt, chest heaving and he adjusts quick for it, dropping his jaw slack to allow for the swell to tumble in. He follows when you fall back, tongue flat on the underside of your breast, just following the curve, and your mind wobbles with the sensation.

He noses his way around the weight, listens to you puff and work your tongue around your mouth, those muscles in your throat bob and shift with too many swallows. He tilts, just enough, and wraps his lips around a hardened peak, swiping the tip of his tongue across it.

You whine, groan at him. “ _Dean,_ ” and he sucks hard enough to take blood and breath and common sense and trap it between his teeth, and you think it’s slightly unfair that he gets all this contact and appreciation, but then he hums and you relent that maybe it’s not so bad.

The hand you have on his shoulder scrabbles around the back of his neck to hold and anchor and he pops off with a little sound and smiles up at you, at your flushed cheeks and furrowed brow, your puffy lips and he fills.

“You…sonuva bitch,” you sigh at him, and don’t bother responding to his Cheshire grin.

Dean tilts his head, that impish look intensifying and you find out why a second later. He threads two fingers into you, sliding easily, effortlessly and your walls hum for the contact, the contact that teases and grazes but just isn’t enough, and you know he knows.

“Or this well?” he hums, scissoring his digits to feel how you stretch and beat with your pulse, and watches the way you arch and your hips lift of their own accord.

“You son of a bitch,” you repeat, and you mean it this time as you loll your head back into the corner of the door and the backrest of the seat.

Dean smirks, and then pouts. “No?” clearly unperturbed at your ire, he slips another finger into your warm channel, feeling the walls hug and swell. He starts a slow, shallow push-pull that has you groaning in the back of your throat, mind galloping forward faster than your pulse, chasing something an indistinguishable distance on the horizon.

Dean’s mouth finds the dips and rises of your throat, tasting and nipping and sucking intermittently on the flesh however he fancies. Your hips roll into his hand as best they can, urging depth and meaning, and he gives it to you, if only to hear your breath break and fracture before it really ever leaves your lungs.

He long since sacrificed his hold on your shirt and moved it down to your hip where he grips and clutches so tight it’s like he’s trying to feel the blood vessels under your skin. You’re so close it’s maddening, literally only a fingertip’s length away and you buck for it, snappy and sharp and without the angle you need and you whimper.

Dean rumbles, mouth just under your ear and the sound trips its way down your canal to your brain where it settles about as well as a Mento in diet coke. He presses a full kiss behind your lobe, and he murmurs, “How about this well?” and curls those fingers inside you, insistent and hard on a soft spot that shatters you apart like you’re made of glass.

You tremble and stutter, broken moan stop-starting with the way your walls quiver and contract and draw your muscles tight with hot arrows. Everything rushes, rushes faster than L.A. traffic and blurs like a time lapse of head lights and street lamps and you lose yourself in the colors and the disproportionate sounds, the way that ligaments and tendons shake in their places in mild protest.

Dean waits for you to come down, slowly, gently rubbing between your folds, listening to your breathing race and watching your chest heave with your pulse. He smiles, slips his arm around your waist, winds his forearm up your back to give you something to lean on, and nestles under your jaw.

You swallow a gulping breath, pat and twitch your hands up his back, smoothing over shoulder blades, and rest a hand on the nape of his neck, swiping a thumb through the short hairs gathered there and wait with him.

Five minutes later, when you’re able to tell the difference between up and down, you finally speak. “Almost too well.”

He snorts, sits straight, and looks you over. “Not knowing when you’re in over your head,” he nods, winks at you, and you blink at him.

When he smirks, and bends down for the bottle of whiskey you realize he’s tagging that as a ‘bad habit’ and you roll your eyes.

“Whatever,” you say lightly, and then notice the fogged-up windows and windshield and you literally bite your tongue. _Well, when he’s right, he’s right._

He once again offers the bottle and you take it with a grateful nod and silence sits for a moment while you sip and he throws an arm over the front seat to look at you. You measure your alcohol, and he listens to it slosh and slap the bottle whenever you drink as you think and reminisce events hardly out of their infancy.

You resign with a short exhale when you glance over at him and find him in a similar state. You shake your head in disbelief, and puff out a, “ _Fuck_ ,” as you stare out your cloudy windshield.

He nods a little sideways, but tips his chin and grins wide and waits for you to look at him. When you do, he makes you a promise.

“Yeah, don’t you worry. We’re gonna do that.”

You blatantly take a much-needed drink, and pray to whatever powers that be that you can make it can make it home in one piece.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Uh, I don't know what to say besides sorry, because there has been a criminally long wait on this and I have no excuse except that writer's block snuck up on me like a binge watching session on Netflix. Because I'm lazy, I didn't proofread this either...sue me. Take it easy, lovelies, life is rough.


	8. A New Bad Habit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finally. Fucking finally. All this sexual tension has finally led somewhere, and you have all your little bad habits to thank for it. And at the end of it all, you have a new one to add to the list, this one you're happy to put at the top. This one might be the only bad habit you really need.

The whole ride back to the bunker, Dean has a tight hold on your thigh with softly pressing fingers, and you, you’ve got an iron grip on the steering wheel. And half of your mind on the asphalt ahead of you, just enough focus that you can get the both of you back alive.

He doesn’t make it easy, trailing those practiced, deliciously rough fingertips along the smooth skin of your thigh, and it isn’t just his slender appendages that you feel caressing your crackling flesh, it’s his sharp, electric green eyes that ghost with presence behind his hand, and it’s strong.

It makes your spine waver, wobble, and curve inside your back like a snake with languid warmth and want. He doesn’t seem to put an effort behind it, as familiar as the way he shifts gears on Baby, and you figure he wouldn’t; he’s been charming and seducing women years longer than you knew about the Supernatural. It was his second business, putting an end to evil just barely came ahead.

He squeezes your thigh, fingers curled around the exceptionally warm inside, the softer flesh and you jump, swallowing back a dry-tongued squeak. “Green light, babe.” He tells you, and you flicker your gaze up, finding the traffic light holding a muted parakeet green, this signal for ‘GO’.

It stays, almost giving you permission in more than one way, a sign not for vehicular laws and fundaments, but for relationships and boundaries. Go, kick away that line in the sand. Go, draw a new line, one that wrinkles sheets and throws pillows onto the floor. One that puts a dent in the wall, a notch on your untarnished bed-post. It was, after all, a new bed.

So, you go. And you speed, and it’s not to break the law for the sake of breaking it. No, this time you have a reason, maybe not a well-founded reason. If you got pulled over, you couldn’t very well get out of a ticket with the excuse of: Well, you see officer, we were on our way home to have a very heated and long, _long,_ fuck. Got itches to scratch, you know?

No, but you did have a reason, and it made you push the car harder than you ever had. Dean notices, because he goddamn notices everything.

“Excited?” he teases, thumb brushing back and forth.

“Fuck off,” you quip, confirming for him.

He laughs, mostly in his eyes and glances at the speedometer, thinking the way the needle climbs is an accurate way to describe this situation. The mutual attraction between you two: fast, steadily, without end, beyond common sense and safety.

You hardly see the bunker, but you know it, muscle memory, and you pull in, car rolling and dipping- tilting with the downward slope of the hill.

“Sam?” you ask, letting the car coast into the garage, the same as you left it, lights on, door open- the door Dean forgot to close, and he hums.

“Told him to get lost.” He says, and you notice the Charger is missing. How you missed it you don’t know- you do know.

“We need the whole bunker?” you park the Cobra, kill the engine.

“No, I’m just gloating.” He tells you, and you turn to look at him for the first time in about twenty minutes. He’s still got that hand on you, near the bottom of your shorts, which haven’t been buttoned, and he’s so tempted to pick you apart again in the car. But he licks his lips and meets your weighted gaze. “Because I’m the one that gets to-“

“Pee in a circle around me?” you interrupt with a frowning smile and high eyebrows.

He pinches his expression, blinks with narrowed eyes. “Your fault,” he sighs, and opens his door with his other hand, still holding your thigh his arm-span is so wide.

Oh, this should be good. “Yeah, how so?” you ask, swinging your own door open, and you both break contact to get out. His door thuds shut first, and you take your time shutting yours. He’s suddenly the one that’s putting the pedal to the metal, excited like a kid on Christmas and antsy, can’t hardly wait.

He’s around the hood of your car and in front of you just as your door settles. You’re already leaning back into it, relaxed, poised for his advance. Maybe you should be slightly embarrassed, a little less cocky because your shorts are hanging open, dangling low on your hips revealing your black-lace panties that were now in need of a good wash. Maybe you should be demure, tone the haughtiness down a bit, but really all you are is proud.

Proud that you’ve got him- _Dean Winchester_ -so riled up. He brackets you in against the cold metal of the door, his forearms on top of the roof and stares down at you.

“Leading Sammy on,” He dives down without warning, his mouth suddenly at your neck and you tilt with a little gasp. “Offering yourself- bet you woulda let ‘im fuck you on that table just to piss me off,” he rumbles, hot and angry and presses into you, hips to stomach so you can feel how irate he is while he talks.

“Wouldn’t you?” he bites, and you arch for him, never having been so thrilled. Typically, when a guy got all possessive and territorial it pissed you off. But this, this you love. You crave.

“ _Mmm_.” You hum, and put your hands on his sides, feeling rigid muscle, strong bones of his ribcage. “Would you have stayed to watch?”

Strike fucking four.

You’re over his shoulder before you even realize your feet have left the ground, and you stare at the concrete in a sort daze, oxygen having fled your lungs at the press of his clavicle into your stomach.

“Dean!” you gasp, and he rumbles in response, arm tight around the back of your legs as he walks towards the hallway, footsteps swaying you. You watch the backs of his work boots appear and disappear past the firm roundness of his ass, and you smile.

He stiffens, jumps when you squeeze him through his back pocket, and you giggle impishly all of two seconds before he silences you with a sharp swat on your ass.

You yelp, and he growls at you low in his chest. You whine at him, “What, I don’t get to cop a feel?” To emphasize your question, you remove your hand from his pocket and instead slip it past his jeans, under his boxers to truly feel that firm, perky ass.

“ _No._ ” he grits out, and his hand lands another smack, this one harsher and you squeak in surprise, arousal. His arm has tightened around your legs, at the crease of your knees, and he holds you steady probably as some sort of punishment. But it works out better for you, you don’t have to worry about sliding away.

You drag your hands up his lower back, pulling his shirts with you, letting you glimpse the dip of his spine to his tail-bone, the ridge caused by muscles underneath a thin layer of cush. You hum a moan, one breathy and carrying an undeniable note of _want_.

Dean hisses quietly, “Goddamn.” Like he’s torn. You get the hem of his t-shirt and his plaid button-up between your teeth, and he glares ahead, wondering what you’re doing.

He gets his answer a moment later when you rake your nails up his back, stinging and biting deliciously across his warm skin. He grunts, no longer uncertain, and brings his hand down on you again, and you arch with it, biting the fabric of his shirts harder.

You’ve hardly been watching where he’s taking you too busy enjoying yourself, teasing him. You blink a little stupidly when he kicks a door open; you smell leather, aftershave, metal, and something that just says _Dean_ , and you know you’re in his room.

You let his shirts drop from between your teeth and ‘wonder’ aloud. “Here I thought _you’d_ like to fuck me on that table-“ you’re dropped onto his bed, near the foot of it, legs dangling over the edge. You bounce a little, not much because it’s memory foam, and you have a feeling you’re about to be comfortably fucked.

Dean glares down at you, brow low, stoically- resiliently -silent, so you continue talking. “Not too late, we could go out to the library,” he drags his shirts over his head in one tug and you eye him hungrily. “I could call Sammy,” he throws them to some unknown corner, chucks them more-like, furious and you’re not the least bit deterred. “And _he_ could watch me get fucked on that table-“

He toes off his boots, stubbornly quiet despite all your goading, and sinks down to his knees, tugging your own boots off. You wonder about his silence. He was so talkative back in the car. Maybe he only talks when he does the teasing and isn’t on the receiving end of it.

You grin down at him. “I’m open to suggestions.” He tosses your boots behind him, still glowering, still quiet. Now you furrow your brow. Is he actually mad at you? “Dean-“

Quick as a whip and just as sharp he’s on you, stretched tall even on his knees, with a hand in your hair and on your waist. He kisses you hard, lingering with force like he’s trying to feel how cells move beneath the skin and you push back, just as eager to know the basics of biology from a hands-on experience.

His fingers curl tight in your hair, tugging on strands in little pin-pricks of discomfort but you don’t complain, not when he’s this close, crowded into you, when you can discern the difference the smoothness of his lips or the slip-slide of his tongue for the briefest of moments.

Somewhere in the middle of choosing to swoon or fall into his lap, he shifts gears, rolling the kiss into something softer, heavier around the swollen lips and labored breath and you sigh. That hand in your hair has slid down to hold the back of your neck because he’s felt the way you slumped, whatever strings that held you together have wavered, drooped.

You lean forward, not exactly sure how close you are, all you do know is that he’s not kissing you anymore and that should be a damn federal crime. Your hands seek him out next, landing on his chest blindly, palms flat against firm heat.

He pushes a big wet, fat kiss onto your mouth, gets his hands on the side of your head and swallows all the little noises that bounce around behind your teeth. His collar bone slides beneath your palms, then his shoulders, and then his shoulder blades until you’re as close as you can be while he lazily kisses you slack in his arms.

You roll away, no, that’s not it. He’s up, leaning over you, laying you on the bed. You’re not sure how, but he’s cut back on all the heat, lowered it to a simmer, and you rest in it, warm-boned and laid long.

He brushes pecks and nibbles all over your throat, and your hands limply drag along the tops of his shoulders, down his arms, and you hum. A low, lingering note of contentment.

Dean chuckles under your chin and pops up to look at you, heavy-lidded with a loose smile. And then he remembers that cocky, Cheshire grin you were wearing a few minutes before. How he basically just kissed it away, and he feels the need to explain.

“I’m sure you were all excited for a fast and heavy fuck,” He’s not wrong, you were- are -hoping to be fucked into the mattress. You’re hoping you’ll have trouble walking tomorrow-

“But, I wanna take my time,” he murmurs, dragging his lips along the dip of your throat. “Been thinkin’ about this awhile.”

_Aw. That’s-_

“Ever since we met, honestly.” He mumbles into your shoulder, biting, tugging on the skin of your shoulder-neck junction.

“What?” Oh, your voice is back, how bout that. “S’long time just for a fuck.” It doesn’t even sound like you, he’s turned you into a puddle of the woman you were.

He shakes his head, stubble scratching, but neither of you really notice. “No.” He grabs the hem of your tank-top, and you arch as he lifts it, then you settle and tilt your head up as he works it off your arms and over your head. “No no no.”

He looks at you, a crease in his brow, a slight pout to his lips because _you don’t get it._ You blink at him, and push yourself up a little on elbows. “Y/N, if that was all I wanted from you, it would’ve happened already,” he says, and then adds with a small frown, “Long time ago.”

_What the hell is he on his way to admitting?_

“I get to have you,” he says, a quieter register and sweeps his gaze down, over your lips and neck and collar bone, and lower to appreciate pieces of you that have remained out of his reach.

_What…_

“I don’t want a one-time occurrence, or a friends with benefits deal out of this.” He tells you, almost whispering like it’s a secret, and trails his fingertips along your sides as he finishes, “I wanna _have_ you.”

He ducks down to nose at the side of your neck while you let his words sink in, while you think. While you think about the fact that you don’t have to think.

“Huh,” you burst, and just from that syllable alone Dean looks at you, expectant. “What a coincidence: I’ve wanted to have you too.” He flatly dimples a cheek, catching that teasing, shit-stirring tone in your voice.

“You know what-“ He cups a breast, getting the full heft of it in his palm and gives a nice little squeeze that’s all palm and barely kissing fingertips. It’s so warm and luxurious, you arch for it with a quiet moan and Dean smiles, repeating.

This time, when his palms constricts, those fingers curl and pluck at your nipple and you _Oh!_ at the sensation, tipping your head back. Dean ducks his head, noses at your other breast, contemplative, and then he talks, hot breath blowing down your ribcage.

“Hey, Y/N,” he tweaks your hardened peak between thumb and index finger, rolling slowly and you huff your question at him with puffed cheeks and a slicked brow. “I found that tattoo.” He flatly drags his tongue along the ridge of no. 6 of your ribcage, just under your breast.

You grin, though he can’t see you and roll your eyes. “Thoughts?”

He sucks the skin there, “Oh, I’ve got plenty.” And drags his tongue up, curving around the weight, slows on the crest and then covers your waiting pert nipple. Dean’s hardly gotten it in the cavern of his mouth before he sucks, making you gasp, and then gently rolls it between his teeth. His fingers on your other breast pinch hard and you jolt, jump with it punching out a _Hohfuck!_

He breaks away with a small ‘pop’ and grins up at you, able to catch a slant of your jaw, a sliver of your cheekbone and your fluttering lashes from this angle. “You look like you might have a thought,” he says lightly, and you hum/groan at him.

“More than one.” You croak, and he levers himself upright on forearms, leaning his stomach on yours, all strong and hot.

“You wanna hold on to ‘em, or you wanna share?” he asks, slithering away, sliding down your body, dropping kisses here and there; like the sea turtle under your breast, or the infinity symbol over your belly button, the anti-possession tattoo on your hip where he stops a moment to say, “Hot.” Before he’s moving on.

“Mm.” he’s at the edge of the bed, and you prop yourself up, hair hanging behind you. “Most of them involve you skipping foreplay, so I’ll keep ‘em to myself.”

He smiles, biting on it. “Later, then.” Dean hooks his fingers into the waistband of panties, and drags them with a helpful lift of your hips. Your shorts follow easily, they’re barely hanging onto you as it is. Over the shoulder he tosses them, nary a thought, completely blasé about it like he’s done this with you a million times.

There’s still a bunch of eye-contact, and you know he doesn’t want to hurry, but you think he’s being just a little ornery. And you’re right, because he quirks an eyebrow at you, and you quirk one right back a quick, emphatic conversation-

And then his gaze drops, travels low and steady over curves, you watch him look at you, the way he fills in the shoulders with breath, pushing light and shadows over his skin. You watch the way his eyes crinkle at the edges with little smiles, giddy with the view. Until finally, he snaps his gaze back up to you,

“You have any preferences?”

You look down at him, those broad shoulders and firm chest hugged with low lamplight. His bright green eyes that twinkle at you playfully, that rough and stubbly jaw, full pouty lips…and it’s all at the foot of the bed, waiting.

“Nope. I trust your judgement.” Jesus, as long as it’s Dean, that’s all you care.

He smirks. “Noted.” And settles down on his knees, sits on his heels, trails his hands along the sides of your calves, rough palms grazing lightly. He’s observing again, leisurely while you lean back on elbows and shoulders that are starting to ache.

He hooks a leg in his hand at the crease of your knee, drops his shoulder and guides that leg over the lowered slope. Just as he grabs the other, he stops, heavy stare locked on your thigh.

The words…

“Dean?”

He twitches, blinks a couple times, and then smiles up at you. “Crazy day.” He says, mostly to himself and throws your other leg over his shoulder and you just have to agree, because he _threw your leg over his shoulder._

“Good kind of crazy.” You remark as his arms reach under, around, and his hands find the tops of your thighs, close to the crease.

“The best kind.” He murmurs, and leans down, back curving with it and you think the poke, the small rise of his spine under his golden skin is the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen. His mouth trails languidly along a thigh, sucks and nibbles and nips at the skin, wanders up to that crease where he nuzzles in with his prickly chin.

He’s so damn close it’s frustrating, but he just settles there with a sweet hum and licks, circles back to pepper little pecks in that warm nook of your skin, smiling at the jump of muscles, the involuntary twitches.

And then he sinks back, sucks an angry mark into the softness, drawing a wispy gasp from you that’s all grated vocal chords. A second later, he bites, with a full mouth and demanding teeth, and you squeak a gasp that’s an octave higher.

“Dean!”

His head pops up at your voice, eyes worried. “Shit, sorry. I didn’t mean to- “ but you giggle at him, shaking your head, and he relaxes. “S’just…your tattoo…” he trails off, eyeing it.

You know what he means. On one thigh you have the words _Bite me,_ written in thin looping scrawl. And on the other: _Harder._

“It’s fine. Really, Dean.” He stares at you second later, deciding whether or not you mean it and once he realizes you do, he smiles softly.

He places a tiny kiss on the bite mark he left, an unspoken apology even though there’s nothing to be sorry for. He noses back the way he went, mumbles into your skin that’s broken out in a light sheen, mostly from anticipation alone.

“Lay back.” And you do, your shoulders thanking you in forty different languages. Dean’s disappeared from your view, but not your attention. And certainly not when he talks, not when his mouth on you, that bass vibrating nerves and flesh that’s already buzzing for him.

“After this, we’ll break that damn table,” You _Hahh,_ at him, feeling every syllable of his lips. “The counter,” he says thinking back to the fucking potato chips, and dips his chin, nestling, rolling his head back and forth, working through the folds. “The fucking Charger.”

You snatch at his head, scratching at his scalp and like that’s the starting gun for a race he earnestly delves in. He laps at you, full broad strokes that make you quake and stutter breath. He hums, poking the tip of his tongue in quiet corners, little nooks and listens to you endure, as shaky as it is.

He gets in under, underneath the pulsing flesh and layered heat straight to that little nub, direct and precise in his aim, in his intentions. But you already know that. And he flicks his tongue against it, somehow making the motion rough, making it catch even though it should be slippery and smooth, and it flashes through you like electricity.

“Oh, _fuck._ ” You sigh, thighs shaking around his head, and he rumbles in response, rocking you with the vibrations, tongue swirling your clit. You’re right there, at the edge with trembling nerves and excited blood, skin fluttering all over in waves- but he’s still tip-tapping near the drop off.

“Ugh, Dean!” you groan, exasperated at him and thread a hand in his hair, fisting his short locks. “You fucker!”

He actually chuckles, and you start to regret giving him the reins but you notice something. One of the hands on your thighs has disappeared. He sucks that fleshy nub into his mouth right as he slips two fingers into your wetness. You buck at him, and he sacrifices his hold on your other thigh to lay his arm on your stomach, holding you down.

A harsh suck on the withdrawal of his fingers, a teasing circle when he threads them back in, and he can feel how close you are; your thighs are trembling, flexing, trying so hard not to squeeze his head. He takes mercy on you the next time your breath squeaks out, high and strained, and reaches with his fingers, curls them into your sweet spot.

It’s so much better this way, this close, he can feel every second of you falling apart, all that heat rushing and rising, the full-body shake, the breaks in gasps, the gush of arousal that he can get his mouth on, how the sound of you gasping and moaning is watered down because he’s nestled in so deep. Yes, it’s so much better.

You stare at the ceiling, breath sawing out of you while he takes you down slowly, attentive. You look through a hazy fog for a time, trying to remember what day it is, what your name is, what language you’re fluent in.

Eventually, you settle where you are: in Dean’s bed, and take a deep breath, dragging your fingers through his hair. He looks up when you do,

“How’d I do?”

You can feel him smile into your thigh, and huff at him. “I thought we agreed I’d keep my thoughts to myself.” Your legs drop from his shoulders, and he stands, and just like that your bones jump back into your skin where they belong.

He tosses a foil packet onto the bed from his back pocket. “Only where foreplay was involved.” He reminds you, popping the button on his jeans.

“Curiosity killed the cat you know.” You say, watching him shove denim and cotton away. His cock springs free, slapping against his stomach, and you hear yourself say, “You poor man.”

He grins, kicking away the material pooled at his feet. “Poor me. Lucky you.”

You scoot back on the bed, using arm muscles that aren’t aware they exist. He crawls after you, snatching the condom along the way. “I’m nothing if not lucky.” You reply as he tears the foil and rolls the rubber on his bobbing dick.

Dean smiles wider, pushes his thighs under yours and leans down to mesh your lips together. You reach for him, lengthening your spine, sliding your hands over that strong jaw to slide back to the base of his skull, holding the kiss firm and open.

A hand snatches your thigh, hikes it up onto his waist, and you both gasp into the kiss when he nudges your clit.

“ _Hmm_. I think I’m pretty lucky too.” He mumbles, nudging you again, and you hitch an inhale somewhere around your sternum.

“We gonna argue about who’s luckier?” You tug him closer with that thigh, his cock slipping down to coast through the wetness of your folds.

Dean groans, pushes a fat kiss to your temple. “Is there really any argument?” He shifts, leans back and gets the tip locked into the dint of your opening.

“Once you’re in me, I’ll let you know.”

He breathes right into your ear, punchy, and rocks his hips, inching himself in. Too slow. Too damn slow. You almost apologize to him: you throw your other around his waist and _pull him in._

“Hohfuck!” he gasps, and takes a second. He needs one, just to get his bearings. Your hands run over his shoulders, his sides. “That wasn’t slow.”

You rock your hips into him, nibbling at his neck, feeling him pulse and twitch inside you. “I’m the luckier one.”

He puffs a breath at you, not amused. But he doesn’t argue, he can’t. He’s too busy-

“You good?” you ask him.

“Great.” And he starts moving. Steady, hard thrusts that would move you up the bed if he didn’t have you caged in under his elbows. You really don’t think he could’ve done this part slow even if his life depended on it. It’s too good.

You cross your ankles over his back, getting stability to meet him with little rolls, slants that drive him deeper. He grunts in your ear, drops his hips to get closer, make it something that drags and nicks, something long and smooth.

Your bellies meet, sweat slicked skin sliding, and arch to get more contact. Dean pouts a frown above you, so focused, and blinks hard-

“Oh! Ah- AH!”

He rumbles. “Found it.” Nudges it, hears you waver a moan, “Again.” And pierces that spot, over and over. He grabs one of your hands, drags it between you and tells you, “Make it feel nice.” Not stalling his thrusts.

You moan, and do as he says, finding your clit somehow through the haze to rub circles, sometimes a tug because his belly gets in the way. It isn’t too long before everything starts climbing, starts sharpening and tightening and centering. And Dean feels it, pushes harder, sacrificing length for strength, speeds the rhythm.

You tumble over first, clenching and quivering and grabbing at him anyway you can get him. And he falters, your walls crumbling around him in quakes and heavy undulations, and he follows you with a punched-out groan, fisting sheets above your head.

For a while it’s loud and shaky breath, and little noises, and then it’s tiny movements, throats working to swallow, fingers twitching, eyelids blinking. It’s only when Dean’s shoulders begin to ache that he recovers, and withdraws. He cleans you both up groggily, limbs weighted, and makes his way back, a sleepy smile pulling his lips.

You’re already under the comforter, heavy-lidded and limp, and he slides in behind you, fitting himself as tightly but as comfortably as he can into you. He slips an arm under the pillow, the other he throws over your waist, rubbing at your tummy.

He talks first, into your neck where he places soft pecks. “So, who’s luckier?”

You murmur a laugh and don’t bother pretending to be surprised. You reach down and slide your hand over his, slip your fingers through his. “You know what you are, Dean Winchester?”

He hums into neck, nosing behind your ear. “Mm-mm. What am I?”

You grin hard enough to make your cheeks ache and it’s like he can feel it because he’s smiling too. Or maybe he knows what you’re going to say. Either way…

“You’re a bad habit.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh. My. God. It's finished, it's done. And it is so goddamn late. I'm sorry. I've worked on this chapter for three days straight, and I don't even know if I'm satisfied, but I usually never am, as a result I didn't proofread. Peace out. I'll see y'all later.  
> Take it easy, lovelies. Life is rough.


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